


And After That, The Dark

by beetle



Category: Star Trek
Genre: M/M, Post-Star Trek XI
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 03:58:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary . . . well, this was inspired by Tennyson's Crossing The Bar, a far better summary than anything I'll ever be capable of writing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Spoilers: Set a few years after the film. Major character death. Demons. Warthogs. Weirdness.

  
It's full, and perfect—or almost. This is how Montgomery Scott knows he's dreaming.  
  
  
He's a man who dreams in bright colors, and abstract concepts. His unconscious mind doesn't cry back the events of days and hours past, but instead whispers; it teaches him the secret ways to bend the laws of the limited universe he finds himself wedged back into, of a morn.  
  
  
So it is only rarely he dreams of the waking world, and of his myriad places in it, but when he does, he dreams lucidly. He could no more confuse his dreams with his waking, than he could confuse tuna on rye with pastrami on sourdough.  
  
  
(And even were he capable of such self-deception, he'd probably see through it and sooner, rather than later.)  
  
  
In this particular dream, he's at the huge old flat at Balnagask Circle. He turns around in a tight circle, fully aware that he's dreaming, yet wary of barking his shins on the coffee table or the uncomfortable, ancient divan.  
  
  
The room is choked with such furniture, the walls with pictures of family and friends dating back three or four generations in some cases: dark-haired, dark-eyed men and women with a canny, intelligent look about them and mischievous smiles.  
  
  
Scotty half expects to seem Jemmy and Lulu come in, arguing or tussling, followed by know-it-all Charlie and wide-eyed baby Dani. Expects to see their Mam, a tall woman, heavy-set blonde with a sharp tongue and brusque manner, come striding in to sort it all out.  
  
  
Their father, though kind, was distant, and spent most of his time in the den, writing articles on this, that, or the other. Through his efforts, the family, though not rich, was never poor. Never had to rely upon government for aide of any kind. Their flat was paid for, and had more than enough room for the Scotts and their five children.  
  
  
The building itself was one of many set in rather homely buildings, surfeit of old asphalt, and stunted grass—so unlike Linlithgow, which the young Scott family had left early in Scotty's childhood. But like Linlithgow, Balnagask's not a place he'd normally visit in waking life, or dreams. Without the family, the old flat feels exactly that: flat. Dead, even, and Scotty doesn't linger.   
  
  
As he steps outside the cluttered confines of the flat—surely demolished in the waking world, but real, too; as real as the sun beating on his face—he finds himself searching the Circle for familiar faces. Mrs. Rose and her brood of tow-headed, gap-toothed lunatic bairns. Or Harman McGaddy, Balnagask's resident purse-lipped old-codger-with-the-dodgy-past. Not, himself, such a fond memory, but one who'd tolerated bullying worse than he tolerated insolence from anyone younger than him. He'd saved Scotty's runty, trouble-prone arse from wallopings more than once, grumbling all the while about loud, badly-behaved children.  
  
  
He searches, quite futilely, for Fyodor Agata (who was called  _Snoony_  by everyone, even his own mum. And the name stuck for life, though no one remembered why he was called that in the first place), his best mate, whose entire family moved to San Francisco after his older sisters got accepted into Starfleet Academy. Snoony and Scotty (who was always called that because he was the only one of this brood of Scotts who actually  _looked_  like a  _Scott_ , which is to say small and dark-haired) had each remained the other's best and constant companions in a life that had precious few of those.  
  
  
As he jogs through the still, and empty streets of the Aberdeen suburbs, heart racing at the sight of the not-too-distant city and he feels in unaccountably high spirits. If this is a dream, he'll dream it, aye, till he's  _ripped_  from it by whatever the waking world holds. . . .  
  
  


*

  
  
What the waking world holds is pain.  
  
  
When restless mirkness finally lets him out from under, Scotty's head is throbbing in quite a different way than he's used to. There's no bottle of Laphroaig ever did  _this_ , nae, to man nor beast. For not only does his head feel as if it's about to fall off like an overripe melon, but his posh Starfleet issue bed's been replaced with something that feels like studded concrete to his lower half, and a cool, firm mattress to the uppers.  
  
  
Alarmed—somewhere, beneath the great, walloping non-hangover pain—he tries to sit up. But something that might well be a concussion keeps him from getting very far, as does a pair of gently restraining hands on his shoulders.  
  
  
"Easy, now. You've been unconscious for awhile," a low, comforting, thank gods  _familiar_  voice says, and Scotty cracks his eyelids. Wherever they are, the lighting is dim enough that it doesn't add to the walloping, and after a few blinks, he can see Hikaru Sulu's face hanging above his own; it's wan, bruised, and solemn. His poor left eye is swollen shut.  
  
  
Forcing motion out of a water-weak, trembling arm, Scotty reaches up and touches the cool purple-green skin near Sulu's eye, and Sulu doesn't wince away—holds perfectly still till Scotty's arm flops back down to join the rest of him.  
  
  
Thanks to the pounding of his head, so help him, he can barely feel the impact. That can't be good.  
  
  
"Y'look like shite and a half, frien'," Scotty croaks, and each word is like the crack of doom for all the good it does his skull. Sulu smiles wryly, but warmly, as always. It's a damned nice smile, too, for a' that it's bloody—and if there's such a smile, then nothing's all that bad, is it? "Are y'alright, then?"  
  
  
"About as well as can be expected, under the circumstances. And currently, you're no Dex Sexington, yourself."  
  
  
"The hell I'm nae Dex Sexington," Scotty takes a deep breath of chill, dry air and nearly passes out from a combination of nausea and disorientation. "Christ on the castanets . . . what _happened_? Where are we?"  
  
  
Sulu sighs, and shifts a little. It's then Scotty realizes he's laying in half in Sulu's lap. The flat thing his numb arm is resting on is a floor of strangely uniform grey rock. "Tell me what you remember."  
  
  
"I . . . c'n  _barely_  remember what comes after inhale," Scotty admits, trying on a smile of his own. And it must be a particularly gruesome spectacle, because the normally stoic pilot looks away, clearly troubled. "But I'll suppose our away mission didnae go as planned?"  
  
  
"Do they ever?" Sulu snorts, and glances at Scotty again, then away. "Do you remember anything that happened after we landed?"  
  
  
Scotty tries to think around the walloping his brain is taking. There's no Old Man McGaddy to fight  _this_  battle for him. . . .  
  
  
Everything is fuzzy, edged in fog. But he remembers . . . he remembers a barren, completely arid planet, covered in grey dust, and the decayed ruins of ancient cities. Sporadic signs told a story of a people somewhat closer to developing cold fusion than a warp engine. But there was no sign of the people themselves. At least not according to Pavel Chekov's cheerful conn-chatter, or the updates from any of the other away teams scattered across the barren world. “I . . . remember that bloody science officer, the one that thinks she's Spock, Jr.—”  
  
  
“Lieutenant Kovacs.”  
  
  
“Aye, that's the one. She couldnae wait t' get at some bloody cave formations—said they wouldnae show up when she scanned them, nae matter how she scanned them, but visual telemetry proved they were there, rather than a sizable chunk of planet was missing. And we were after gettin' samples of her precious rock, then—”  
  
  
Scotty closes his eyes and swallows down near overwhelming nausea. When he opens them again, Sulu's staring off at the wall across from them. “Well, after that, I dinna really remember, do I?”  
  
  
“They're called the Ennorgn,” Sulu says, suddenly taking Scott's hand and looking at it as if he's never seen its like, and turning it this way and that, as if trying to solve a bloody logic puzzle. “They live in these caves, and they don't like things that come from outside.  
  
  
“Things like us?”  
  
  
Sulu nods once, staring intently at Scotty's fingernails. “We went in to try and get readings, as well as collect Kovacs' samples. You and Cason went right at the first branch, Spinnelli and I went straight. Spock and Kovacs went left. The next thing I hear is you shouting. Just once, and it stopped a few seconds later. Cason and I ran back the way we came, and . . . the Ennorgn were waiting for us at the branch. They were fast, and armed to the teeth with edged weapons. But Spinnelli and I got a couple of them. Then we were jumped from behind.” Sulu clutches Scotty's hand tightly for a moment, like a vise made of nitrogen.  
  
  
 _Shite._  "Wh' about the lass—Cason? And Spinnelli?"  
  
  
Sulu hesitates, then says answers without inflection. “Audra and Pete have gone on.”  
  
  
An odd way of putting it, but the  _shock_  of it . . . of that quiet, wee sprite of a lass—five feet and one, if she's an inch, nonetheless rising through the ranks of security for her competence . . . and that lad, as chatty as the lass was silent, and a crack fellow with a joke or a phaser. . . .  
  
  
Both so young and so dead, during what should've been an easy, even boring mission.  
  
  
“I don't know if Spock and Kovacs got caught, but I think they didn't, because. . . .” Sulu's staring at the wall again, and his grip on Scotty's hand has loosened, though not warmed. He's probably in shock, not that there's anything Montgomery Scott, the Amazing Concussion Lad, could possibly do about it. “If they can get out of the caves and back to the shuttle, they'll be alright. Enterprise'll find this place.”  
  
  
 _Aye? And what makes you so certain?_  he wants to ask, but doesn't press further. In the dark, any ray of hope is to be nurtured, not pashed out by brute feet.  
  
  
He means to ask how long since they've been taken, but the room goes dark, and the walloping sweeps him up in its jagged arms once more.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See part one for summary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not me, sir.

Older than his wife by twenty years, Albert Scott still managed to outlive her, something that gave him no joy.  
  
  
By Scotty's last year of high school, his mother had already been dead for five years and his father was in a psychological decline, withdrawing from his life, and his children. He retired, and spent all his time in his den going over old family holos and albums, most of which he'd usually been too busy to have any part in.  
  
  
On the rare occasion Scotty or Dani chanced to run into him around the house, he looked at them almost as if he didn't know them; or as if they'd done their growing up in an instant, and he was constantly searching for the rambunctious children they'd been.  
  
  
Scotty's older siblings had moved out by this depressing point: his sister Charlie was keeping house with a fellow in Peru who raised alpacas. The twins were also living their own strange, feckless lives: Jemmy was a street mime in England, and at any given time was shagging half of Eton. Lulu had a closet of an apartment in Glasgow that she shared with a rotating roster of ne'er-do-well slags. But she, at least, still made it home once a week to visit with Da and her younger siblings.  
  
  
Dani, at fourteen, was still too young to fly the coop, but not too young to make anyone who cared to listen miserable with her neo-retro-goth angst. But as soon as she was legal she, too, was gone, off to Exeter.  
  
  
Scotty was the only one of them who'd thought to make a life in Aberdeen, in their old house. The only one who thought that with time and attention, their father might one day wake up and realize that even though his beloved wife had passed on, he still had five directionless children who desperately needed the stability of a parent who cared enough to take them to task over said directionlessness.  
  
  
At any rate, Scotts—most Scotts—never walked away from a battle just because it was a losing one. Feckless though his siblings were,  _Scotty_  Scott intended to stay the course. Not that it was especially hard to make a go of it in the city he grew up in. There was work enough as a handyman and pubs enough to make life almost worth living. He worked like a dog six days a week just to keep himself too busy to think, and drank and fucked away the seventh day for much the same reason. None of it was enough, of course, to stop him dreaming; to stop the numbers that weren't really numbers, but the universe herself, opening up her secrets to him.  
  
  
She was calling him to explore her, find out what made her tick. . . .  
  
  
It was all bosh and silliness, or so Scotty told himself upon struggling out of restless hangovers; then told himself again as he struggled his aching way back home to get ready for another featureless workday. He'd slave away from morning till midnight, go to his favorite pub, get drunk and/or get laid, then make his way home in the morning.  
  
  
This was a pattern that went unbroken for seven years, until one afternoon, Albert Scott took a kip in his den, never to wake up. He'd waited twelve years, but his Nora had finally called him home.  
  
  
Oh, bonny, blithe Aberdeen . . . lovely, exciting, drowning-pool of a city, where Scotty would've died, too. Likely at the bottom of a bottle, or the losing end of a bar-fight, if not for Snoony, who called in every favor he was owed to get personal time so he could be with Scotty.  
  
  
“There's nothing for y' here, mate,” he'd said after the lonely funeral. Not unkindly, but they both knew it was true. Oh, repairing engines and reclamtors, and doing the odd handy-work was keeping body and soul together, but that was all it did. And even drinking himself unconscious couldn't stop the dreams—numbers and algorithms, the ways and means to bend the universe, without breaking her. Even the dozens of journals filled with formulas couldn't stop the hungry, ambitious thing within Scotty from rearing its head like a serpent out of the deepest Pit.  
  
  
He'd never spoken of the things he saw in his dreams with anyone save his mother and Snoony, and even then, only very rarely. It'd never seemed particularly important. Never seemed a part of his waking-life, for the first twenty-five years of it. But in the first few days after his father's death, that dream-life took on an urgency and reality that made his waking-life seem like a purposeless fog he was forced to shuffle through till it killed him.  
  
  
He'd half been thinking to hospitalize himself for exhaustion and impending breakdown, when Snoony beamed in like an angel—like Saint Michael, sans flaming sword, but bearing Bolian rum and  _Kanar_ , and many other assorted alien libations that could and did put both of them under several tables during Snoony's three week leave of absence.  
  
  
It was at the last such table—which was actually the fold-out bed in the tiny flat Scotty'd lived in since he'd sold the house—that Snoony'd finally laid his cards on the table. And they weren't just his cards, no, but Louisa's and Jeremy's, Charlotte's, and Danielle's.  
  
  
"They think you've gone bit unstable, y'know?” he'd said, not even a little apropos of Scotty's mouth on his collarbone, nor of his own hands on Scotty's arse.  
  
  
“'Gone unstable'? What'm I, then? Plutonium?" Scotty could appreciate a good confab with the best of them, but found this line of conversation to be a bit off-topic. "And who's  _they_ , by the by?”  
  
  
“Your family—bloody hell, Scotty, careful wi' the teeth! I'm no' a sandwich!” Snoony had smacked the back of Scotty's head hard enough to sting. Scotty yelped and sat up on his heels, glaring and rubbing his head indignantly. Snoony cocked a dark eyebrow at him, having the nerve to look both unrepentant and sexy at the same time. "Well?"  
  
  
“My family, eh? Aye, they'd know a bit about instability, the lot of 'em.” Scotty had replied shortly, closing his eyes briefly, focusing on the smarting of his head. Anything to keep from being swallowed by grief and regret.  
  
  
As always, on the backs of his eyelids, were the Ways and Means, demanding to be borne out and used. But he'd told them to go feck themselves, and concentrated on the naked, half-hard soldier in his bed. Even when they were wee, Snoony had a way of making the real world  _more_ real, for Scotty. He'd always found ways to drag Scotty out of his own private reality.  
  
  
Of course the ways were never quite as delightful as  _this_  one. This unexpectedly beautiful one, reclining like a lazy god, one hand held out to Scotty as if to pull him back down to the bed.  
  
  
Scott'd never once let a bunch of bloody numbers kill this feeling of extra-real, and he didn't mean to start. But then, numbers were way less demanding and annoying than  _family_. Especially when that family's last name was Scott.  
  
  
“You know, at least I've got a home and steady employment.  _Respectable_  steady employment. Last I heard, Jemmy was doing bloody Tarot cards in Prague, Lu was reading auras in Bruges—Dani was still wi' that travelin' carny-show in Sicily, and Charlie's still a bloody  _street magician_ in the Quito, or wherever. No' a single one of them can exactly claim the stability high-ground in the Scott family!”  
  
  
“At least they're happy, and no' rotting away from grief and strangled dreams," Snoony had said softly, like someone tossing a photon grenade. And he may as well have, for all the hurt it caused Scotty.  
  
  
Which'd pretty much killed round two right there.  
  
  
Scotty'd been half-dressed, very much on his own side of the couch-bed, when Snoony snuggled up close to him, refusing to let him move away. “Gi' off me! Go bugger yourself, Fyodor, 'cause _I'll_  nae be doin' it again.”  
  
  
But Snoony hadn't minded him—never had, and that's one reason they'd always got on so well—kissed his shoulder and hugged him tight, like some sort of blankie-cum-talisman. “I'm for San Fran again, in two days. Y'll come wi' me, Montgomery Scott, and there's the last we'll speak of it.”  
  
  
Scotty had looked over his shoulder to confront what he thought a rather tasteless joke, but Snoony wasn't laughing. His grey eyes were unusually determined, and that easy nature was nowhere in evidence, at the moment. His hair was half-grown out of his stream-lined military cut, dark curls finally daring to put in an appearance with their last barbering several weeks behind them. He looked both younger and older than Scotty was used to seeing him.  
  
  
Then he'd smiled, this handsome young soldier, and kissed Scotty tenderly.  
  
  
“Ye're a lackwit, and a busybody. Y'know that, right?” Scotty had asked, anger binned for sheer flabbergast as that feeling of extra-real had returned ten-fold, grounding him in his skin and bones.  
  
  
“And you're a selfish, socially-awkward, often drunk prodigy. No-one's perfect.” And he'd smiled again, and they'd kissed. Just like that, the stalemate that Scotty'd been living in—all his life, it turns out—had been at last broken. There was no longer any reason to stay in Aberdeen alone, and every reason to go. The Montgomery Scott life-engine had heretofore run smoothly, and would've run so till it stopped, but for this spanner tossed haphazardly into its gears.  
  
  
A week later found him settled into Snoony's spartan, but homey flat like a proper Starfleet spouse. When Snoony was on planet, they laughed like old times, bickered like an old married couple, shagged like shagging was on Prohibition, and were overall a far sight happier than either had been when they were apart.  
  
  
"Y' might consider joining Starfleet," Snoony would say over breakfast, sometimes, wolfing down the renowned Scott omelets or flapjacks. "We c'n always use crack engineers, and you're the crackest I've ever met."  
  
  
"I'm nae an engineer, I'm a handyman," Scotty would correct patiently.  
  
  
Snoony would shake his head a little, swallowing a mouthful of food, barely chewed, just to get the last word. "You're an engineer, Montgomery Scott, whether or no' you have formal training f'r it. There isn't a machine you wouldnae know from the inside out,  _five minutes_  after looking it over."  
  
  
"Smooth-talker," Scotty would snort, and sip his coffee. (Some mornings it was Irish, but as time went on, it increasingly wasn't. Snoony, being Snoony, merely smiled and held his peace on the subject.)  
  
  
"I'm dead-serious, mate! Enlist!"  
  
  
"Right. Me, join Starfleet? Hah! The day the Fleet has use f'r this particular Scott is the day they ought t' lay down their arms and declare unconditional surrender t' everyone and everything!"  
  
  
"C'mon, Scotty—" the infamous puppy eyes are a bit much, but well-played, as Scotty normally can't resist them. Normally.  
  
  
"Belt up and eat y' breakfast, soldier-boy, or ye'll be late for work." And that would end the discussion. But only until the 'morrow.  
  
  


*

  
  
The next time the walloping lets him out from under, Scotty's in the grip of someone considerably less gentle—and absolute  _acres_  less handsome—than Hikaru Sulu.  
  
  
Big thing, this alien, all yellowing tusks, ice-white fur, and animal stink. It's glaibering something at him in angry, snorting grunts.  
  
  
Scotty knows he has a head injury—possibly a concussion, possibly worse. He could very well be hallucinating this hideous thing, though he rather doubts that. The sheer randomness of an alien that looks like a fecking  _albino warthog_ , of all things, is not something even  _his_  mind would be likely to supply.  _Even_  after a head injury.  
  
  
The alien shakes him good and hard, all but bellowing at him between oinking gusts of odiferous breath. Scotty flops and flails about like an abused rag-doll. Aghast and frightened though he is, he's also fairly amused at the visual he and the albino-warthog must present to poor Sulu.  
  
  
"I'm bein' taken t' task by a giant, albino-warthog," he laughs, knowing that if he's not hallucinating, he may not be helping his cause. But he's unable to help it. Inappropriate amusement is also a hallmark of the Scott family, though one that tends to skip a generation. And Scotty's father? Had little or no sense of humor. "Sulu, are ye seein' this fremmit thing, too, or am I fever-mad?"  
  
  
No answer, except the warthog-thing shaking him harder, then dropping him like he's garbage before storming out. There's a heavy metallic clank that sounds like a dungeon door, but Scotty only notices this dimly, as he's in quite a lot of pain from being dropped. Every fiber of him aches and screams, and his skull feels as if it's about to crack open.  
  
  
He lays there, willing his empty stomach to stay put as his head spins violently. Unfortunately, his will isn't up to the challenge, and he rolls weakly onto his side to retch over a stone grate in the floor and spew out burning bile. The scent of the warthog-thing lingers unpleasantly, causing more, but thankfully fruitless upsets.  
  
  
Afterward, he simply lay there, face pressed to the cool, dusty floor. Lays that way in silence, not thinking or doing anything more taxing than breathing. When the smell of his own vomit becomes at least as disgusting as the lingering smell of their captor, Scotty rolls onto his back again, eyes squeezed tight-shut against the spinning of the room.  
  
  
"Please tell me I imagined that," he gasps out eternities later, his throat burning and eyes watering when he finally opens them. Immediately he regrets the latter, as the room is revolving worse than ever and he feels like he's about to fall upward onto the ceiling. "Feck my life for a lark—what've you gone deaf, Sulu?"  
  
  
Still, no answer.  
  
  
There's no way anyone, even someone as unflappable as Hikaru Sulu, could've  _slept_  through that thing bellowing and Scotty retching.  
  
  
Muttering curses and prayers— _Saint Michael bloodyArchangel oh feck defend us in battle be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the fecking devil may God rebuke him we humbly pray and you Prince of the heavenly host by the power of God thrust into bloody Hell Satan and the other evil spirits who prowl the world for the ruin of souls amen amen amen oh feck amen_ —he manages to roll over once more, this time maneuvering himself to his hands and knees. It takes what feels like hours, and he's sweating and barely conscious when he's finally accomplished the feat.  
  
  
It's a long while before he feels up to the task of looking around the spinning room, and when he does, a sob escapes him and he slumps back onto the floor in abject despair.  
  
  
Sulu is gone.  
  



	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See part one for summary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not me, sir.

Literally lost in memory, Scotty rambles around the Aberdeen in his mind.  
  
  
The afternoon is pleasantly warm, if too quiet. Too  _empty_ , like Aberdeen never was. It’s a bonny, beautiful day, but for the lowering mirkness hiding behind reality . . . behind the blue, slightly overcast Aberdeen afternoon.  
  
  
He passes pubs and restaurants that were many of the hallmarks of his misspent youth—leaves them behind for a light jog that turns into a run. Every corner he passes is familiar to him as his own shadow, yet as empty and strange as the vacuum of space. The silence alone causes him to focus on the slap-pound of his feet against stone.  
  
  
He runs till he can't run anymore. Till he reaches Albert Quay, where the air is clean of everything but salt and freedom.  
  
  
There, amongst the pleasure craft and trade vessels, he spies the familiar, as well.  _The Lovely Laura_ , named so for Commodore Reed's eldest daughter. He even sees, at the distant west pier, the old naval ship that’s sat in the quay for longer than anyone can remember, a museum to time and times past.  
  
  
Spotting an empty berth, he slows to a jog once more as he turns on to it, stopping only at the very edge to stare of into the horizon.  
  
  
No sailing ship mars the normally busy waters; the sea’s as flat and serene as a looking glass.  
  
  
Sitting down, he dangles his legs over the edge of the pier, and stares into water too opaque to show more than a blurry, pale blob of a reflection. He wonders how far this dream extends—how vividly rendered this internal world is. If he could jump into that cold water and swim west, to Atlanta, where Charlotte currently resides. Or south, all the way to the Continent, where his other siblings rattle around like errant dice.  
  
  
Or if he could swim all the way to San Francisco . . . and Snoony.  
  
  
 _Snoony lay on his stomach, eyes closed, humming to himself, letting Scotty look his fill.  
  
  
He was handsome, and he well knew it. Could’ve had anyone he wanted, in Starfleet or out, yet he chose Scotty.  
  
  
Oh, aye, there was the ease of long friendship between them, but lately there was something more. In the months since Scotty had finally joined the Academy, this _something _between them seemed to grow and thrive like a weed . . . then blossom like a flower, till even on a gorgeous day, all he'd had eyes for was his old mate.  
  
  
“Ye’re staring, Montgomery Scott.”  
  
  
“And ye’re beautiful,” Scotty had returned, lying down next to Snoony on their blanket. The Academy quad, though busy, was always a lovely place to relax. To lay around with Snoony and let him help with revisions, or prep for quizzes. Or to simply _be _, on the rare occasion they were both in the same place at once, with nowhere else to be.  
  
  
Scotty had straddled Snoony’s slim hips and leaned down to kiss his nape. Kissing had turned to licking, had turned to sucking, and grinding his hips slowly against Snoony’s arse.  
  
  
“So you want t’ get written up for behavior unbecoming a Starfleet cadet, is that it?” But Snoony wasn’t pushing him away, wasn’t doing anything but lying there and practically purring, like a cat on a warm windowsill.  
  
  
“D’ye have any idea how divine your arse is in your reds?”  
  
  
“Oh, I have _some _idea, after all,” had been the lazy reply. That, and Snoony bucking his hips just enough to give Scotty some very bad ideas, indeed. “But they’ll write us both up, you know.”  
  
  
Nibbling at Snoony’s ear, Scotty had laughed. “Mmm, then come back t' my dorm room.”  
  
  
“We’re supposed to be prepping you for an examination, not . . . _Scotty _. . . when it comes to rules an’ regs, Starfleet is notoriously picky. The questions are gonna be hard—”  
  
  
“Really, really _hard _,” Scotty had whispered, and intensified his grinding, never caring that he was simulating fucking his boyfriend in full view of anyone who cared to look.  
  
  
Or he had been, till Snoony had toppled him over.  
  
  
“Ow! Feck!” Scotty moaned, trying to sit up despite the spinning of his head and general ache of hitting ground like a sack of potatoes. Failing that, he simply lay there, clutching his head and squinching his eyes shut. “That was a bit uncalled for!”  
  
  
“Was it?”  
  
  
And Scotty’d learned it was best not to argue with that pissy, prissy tone, so he’d changed tactics. “Look, love, there’s only one question I need the answer t’, and ye’re the only one who can give it t’ me.  
  
  
“When're ye gonna say yes t’ my proposal?”  
  
  
Snoony had sighed, and rolled onto his back to stare at the sky. “Perhaps after ye stop trying t’ get me arrested.”  
  
  
“Cretin. I’m dead serious,” Scotty inched across the grass till he and Snoony were shoulder to shoulder. Snoony reached out and caressed Scotty’s face and smiled when Scotty caught his hand and kissed it.  
  
  
“Montgomery . . . you know neither of us is ready for marriage,” he’d said softly, hazel eyes as serious as Scotty’d ever seen them. . . ._  
  
  
“I reckon I don’t care. I reckon no one’s  _ready_  for marriage. But they do it, all the same,” Scotty tells the setting sun, just like he’d once told Snoony, then he rubs dry eyes. He’s never been one to cry—not even when his mum died, not even when he thought his heart would break beyond repair—  
  
  
No amount of swimming’ll serve Scotty any better than sitting here, alone; so, so alone but for the memories that threaten to break him like they once did. Threaten to sweep him under, like they had in his last year of Starfleet.  
  
  
They never  _had_  got married, like Scotty had wanted and, he was beginning to suspect, Snoony did not. And even if they had, that wouldn’t have changed any-damn-thing. Snoony wanted to see the universe, and he couldn’t do that on Earth, tied to husband who still had yet to graduate and who, Scotty would also come to realize, he wasn’t in love with.  
  
  
Just before the final leg of the program, (after which Scotty would've served as some lucky chief engineer's second on a two year mission,  _after which_  he'd have been eligible for promotion to the rank of Lieutenant Commander), two things happened:  
  
  
Snoony had been reassigned to a sweetheart of a commission. He was part of the security detail assigned to the Federation Ambassador to Cardassia.  
  
  
The second thing didn’t happen for another several months, until Snoony was firmly ensconced in his assignment. He got mixed up—in every way possible—with a young Cardassian apparatchik named Zeged Tain (son of a renowned and influential Gul, brother to a ruthless and brutal Liget). There'd been some sort of scandal involving the supposed trading of secrets, and the young Tain's ties to a rumored shadow government called the Obsidian Order.  
  
  
Before Starfleet even found out one of their own had been involved, Zeged Tain and Fyodor Agata had disappeared so completely, there were no doubts as to the Cardassian government's involvement.  
  
  
Relations between the Federation had wilted, after that incident.  
  
  
Searching for a new anchor, Scotty had buckled under his studies, spent more time in labs and engine rooms than any ten students. Dared things they never would have dared—and using the pet of a person most students had only ever seen on the holo, as his guinea pig.  
  
  
It'd never occurred to him he might not be able to get the poor animal where it was going safely, then back, so confident was he in his dreams, and his grasp of them. If only he could show them all. . . .  
  
  
He'd never have done it if he'd had Snoony around to call him a daft egomaniac. As it was, Jem, who was skint (again) and sleeping on Scotty’s floor these four weeks, merely spurred him on to new nadirs of complete fuckwittery.  
  
  
And when the program ended, instead of being a lieutenant on a fancy new ship of the Fleet—say, the Farragut, or the Enterprise . . . that lovely jewel of a lady—he was on Delta Vega, freezing his bollocks off, nocht to do but drink, and nane to keep him company but poor Keenser.  
  
  
The waking world had seemed further away than ever, for all the good it'd done him. Kept drifting further and further from his half-hearted grasp, until a completely barking lad, and an even more barking old Vulcan turned up in his lonely little section of the waking universe.  
  
  
In a shorter time than he could've guessed, he was a hero—renowned, and a lieutenant commander on that very lady he'd been half in love with, sight unseen, since first glimpsing the blueprints for her engine.  
  
  
“Enterprise,” he murmurs, with the kind of pride and warmth only Jim Kirk, jolly, arrogant wee madman that he is, truly understands. As with Kirk, most days, Enterprise is the only part of waking reality that feels real. Being on her is like finally, finally having both feet on the ground, while still being able to stick his head up in the clouds. “My Enterprise.”  
  
  
“Yes,” a low voice says; warm hands land lightly on his shoulder, and squeeze for a moment.  
  
  
"Snoony?" Scotty asks, looking up, a ready smile on his lips and tears running down his face.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Scotty struggles out of a more natural dover than his last; the cell that'd been so cool before has grown over-warm—near to sweltering.  
  
  
The very first thing he notices is Sulu, sitting across from him, knees drawn up, arms and head resting wearily upon them. He doesn’t seem any worse for wear; whatever the Ennorgn took him out of the cell to do to him wasn’t anything too terrible.  
  
  
Scotty hopes. It’s hard to tell with the dim, grey lighting.  
  
  
More than half convinced he's hallucinating now, he rolls painstakingly to hands and knees—surprised when the room swims and spins, but not nearly as much as he'd feared it might—and crawls toward his crewmate.  
  
  
He gets quite close, and still can't tell if Sulu's real or not, breathing or not, playing possum or genuinely sleeping. He's afraid to reach out and touch, so he sits back on his heels and says Sulu's name in a shaking, ragged whisper.  
  
  
Sulu immediately sits up, opening his good eye, but not tracking too well.  
  
  
"What're ye doin', sittin' so still, lad?" Scotty asks, finally laying his hand on Sulu's shoulder. The material of his shirt is cool, and Sulu squints at him intently.  
  
  
"Can you hear it, yet?"  
  
  
"Um. Can dogs  _really_  no' look up?" When Sulu gives him a confused look, Scotty snorts. "Apologies. I thought we were answering questions wi' other, completely random questions—nae matter. I dinna hear anything. D'ye?"  
  
  
Sulu frowns just a little. Someone who didn't know him might not have seen it at all. "I was trying not to wake you," he says then clutches his head, looking for all the world like a man who's got the weight of the world on his shoulders.  
  
  
 _As well he would. Neither of us is in any shape to form or execute an escape plan, and the Enterprise could look for us till Doomsday, and nae find us, because of these blasted caves. . . ._  
  
  
Scotty takes one of Sulu’s hands away from it’s futile task and squeezes it. "D'ye ken how long since we were taken?"  
  
  
"More than six hours, less than twelve?" Sulu's bleak, calm gaze meets his own again, and he squeezes back. "It's hard to tell. Time tangos and waltzes . . . it's kinda funny, now."  
  
  
"Don't have t' tell  _me_. Felt like I was out for a fortnight, but I clearly wasn't. I've only been awake a few minutes and already it feels like a lifetime. Must be the company."  
  
  
Another smile, and Sulu lets go of his hand. And even though his skin is too clammy, too cool, Scotty immediately misses the comfort of his touch.  
  
  
“So what did they want from you?”  
  
  
Sulu blinks. “Who?”  
  
  
“Silly man—the Ennorgn! The bloody warthogs!”  
  
  
“Oh. Them.” Sulu smiles again, with genuine amusement. “They’ve gotten all they can get from me, which is nothing. Hey, how long do you think till the cavalry rides in on the white chargers?"  
  
  
Scotty sighs miserably. “We should've checked in a few hours ago. They have t’ know something's gone wrong. I take it our comm-badges dinna work in this pit?”  
  
  
Sulu takes Scotty's hand again, and presses it to his chest—to his badge. Nothing. “Unfortunately not. We're too far down and whatever this rock is, it's blocking our signal. A security team'll probably be sent to our last recorded position, but even with the others to guide them, they'll have no way of finding us once they're in these caves. And the Ennorgn are waiting for them.”  
  
  
“Feck. Any ideas on how we're quit o' this place?” Scotty asks hopefully.  
  
  
No change in that gaze, that bleary regard. In all the time they've known each other, Hikaru Sulu's been a still, self-contained man. A quiet man—the type Scotty would've once said would never get along with, or tolerate the likes of a braggart such as himself. Time has proved Scotty wrong on this, as with so many other little, and not so little things.  
  
  
But this silence, this self-containment is quite different. It's not alert, not at all present and accounted for. As if Sulu half thinks he's asleep.  
  
  
"D'ye hear me, then?" Scotty demands, trying to keep the worry out of his voice, and failing. But Sulu blinks again, and shakes his head, like a man shaking himself out of a dream.  
  
  
"I heard you."  
  
  
"Alright, then, let's have it? Any ideas? Slowly—dinna glaiber on so, man! I canna hear m'self think for a' the chatter!” he adds, when Sulu's answer is nothing but that enigmatic little half-smile.  
  
  
Then that half smile becomes an unmistakable one, and Scotty remembers that this—this actual enjoyment, not just a high tolerance of his strident brand of sarcasm—is one of the many things that have, over time, made them friends.  
  
  
“Winna ye at least sit closer, then?” Scotty asks softly, holding out his hand, and Sulu nods once, holding out his own. Scotty snorts, and grabs the proffered hand, pulling on it as hard as his weakened condition will allow. “Get  _over_ , here, y' silly, wee man! Y' gi' me a crimp in m' neck, cranin' over at ye!”  
  
  
Laughing quietly, Sulu shifts closer without letting go of Scotty's hand. Doesn't object when Scotty scoots closer and closer, till he can lay his head on Sulu's shoulder. After a few stiff minutes, Sulu finally relaxes, and dares to work his arm around Scotty's shoulders. He's so blessedly cool, so rock-steady.  
  
  
Shortly, Scotty finds himself drifting off again, and that can’t be good, not in his condition, but exhaustion’s a freight train that won’t be stopped by the likes of him.  
  
  
“D’ye think they’ll find us in time, then?”  
  
  
There’s no answer.  
  
  
Scotty’s still waiting for one when sleep takes him.  
  



	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See part one for summary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not me, sir.

  
For a moment, he half expects the only other person in his world to be Snoony, even knowing, as he wishes he didn't, that the friend who'd accompanied him on many adventures throughout his life—who'd been brother, best friend, lover, and one-man cheering squad—was gone. Buried in an unmarked grave on Cardassia, with the remains of Zeged Tain.  
  
  
There was a time when Snoony was his stability, his rock, but that era is done.  
  
  
(Which doesn't mitigate a disappointment so profound, it renders him blank. Kills a hope he hadn't realized he still harbored: that there was still a place of importance in his world for his oldest friend.)  
  
  
But who he sees when he looks up grinning to beat the band, isn’t Snoony, it’s. . . .  
  
  
Scotty’s smile is returned earnestly—so earnestly. Which is not to say its owner is a man of no artifice, but he tends to move through life using as little of it as possible. A deceptively uncomplicated man for whom Scotty has no working theorems or formulas. The Ways and Means go sailing into the sunset when he's in proximity to Hikaru Sulu.  
  
  
With a snap, Scotty’s mind plays catch-up, depositing him on the shores of more recent memory. Aberdeen fades away, to be replaced by one of Enterprise’s botany bays, filled to busting with alien flora and unique hybrids. Hybrids every bit as unique as their creator.  
  
  
“Hikaru,” Scotty says, and jumps to his feet, almost at attention. It’s only after he’s done so that he realizes Hikaru’s a) not his superior, and b) not wearing a full regulation uniform.  
  
  
He is, instead, wearing just his blacks. They bag a bit on his whipcord frame, but not enough to conceal broad shoulders and lean musculature that’s been the focus of many a fantasy. And not just Scotty’s, if the calf-eyed way the wee Chekov lad sometimes gazes at his partner in crime is any apt indicator.  
  
  
“You know, you’re a hard man to find, when you want to be. I’ve taken quite the tour of your memories looking for you, only to find you sitting on the dock of the bay,” Hikaru says casually, turning to one of his plants and selecting one spily, tripartite, sunrise-colored flower. He plucks it deftly and proffers it to Scotty with a courtly bow. Flustered, Scotty takes the bloom and sniffs it hesitantly. It smells of fresh-picked cherries and crushed mint.  
  
  
Delighted, Scotty takes a deeper breath of the light, playful scent. “Oh, that’s lovely.”  
  
  
“Isn’t it?” Hikaru chuckles. “Not to toot my own horn, but the Helena is one of my more successful hybrids.”  
  
  
Scotty opens eyes he hadn’t even been aware of closing and finds Hikaru a few steps closer. “Ye named this wee blossom ‘Helena’?”  
  
  
“Mhmm. After my great-aunt.” Hikaru reaches out to stroke a petal fondly, but his eyes never leave Scotty’s. “She was a botanist, and the reason I have such a . . . high-maintenance hobby.”  
  
  
“Oh . . . I’d say this was more than a hobby,” Scotty returns, noting that Hikaru shifts a little closer with every word. “And as for high-maintenance—  
  
  
“I tend to like that in a plant. And in people.”  
  
  
“I see.” At least Scotty  _thinks_  he might. Because suddenly, the Helena is a bit less interesting than she was mere moments ago. Though he takes a whiff of her again, just to buy himself time to think further, to figure out exactly what’s going on here. The way Hikaru’s looking at him is both welcome and intimidating, and nothing like the seductive, coy gazes Scotty tends to paste on Hikaru’s face of a dream.  
  
  
No, this look is predatory, aggressive, and surprisingly a turn-on.  
  
  
“I dinna suppose that under this bravado, ye’re really a submissive bottom. . . ?”  
  
  
“I’m  _really not._ ” Then Hikaru’s pulling Scotty flush against him and kissing him  _hard_ , strong hands making a home for themselves, one at the small of Scotty’s back, the other on his arse—and in an unmistakably meaningful way.  
  
  
“I dinna bottom,” Scotty says when Hikaru lets him up for air. The hand on his arse squeezes possessively, seemingly just shy of leaving bruises.  
  
  
“Hmm, there’s a first time for everything.” Hikaru’s eyes are as dark and endless as the universe, his voice a low, background hum. Then Scotty’s falling backwards, almost in slow motion. What he hits isn’t cold, hard floor, but a soft, warm bed. His  _own_  bed, in his own quarters, and he’s stark-bollocks- _naked_.  
  
  
“Em . . . at what point did I lose control of this dream,” he wonders aloud. He’s hard, no surprise, considering the circumstances, and pointing rigidly at the light-panels in his ceiling.  
  
  
“You’re the only thing that feels  _real_  anymore. Everything else is smoke and shadows. . . .” Hikaru (still clothed) kneels on Scotty’s bed, his eyes dark—too dark, too solemn for what’s been happening. “You’re unfinished business that I can’t walk away from.”  
  
  
“Well, of course ye can’t; it's my dream, isnae?” Scotty asks softly, offering Sulu a limp version of his previous smile. “Twists and turns aside, ‘tis my own will governing everything that happens here. Even this.”  
  
  
Scotty reaches out to undo Hikaru’s fly single-handedly, an old trick picked up in a largely misspent youth. “Et voila!”  
  
  
"You’re a man of many skills," Hikaru says in that quiet way he has. “And what if I told you this isn’t a dream? That even if it is, if you’d wanted to, reality could’ve been this way, too?”  
  
  
“I’d say ye’re dotty, even for somethin’  _I_  dreamed u—“ Scotty’s sarcasm is cut off by Hikaru shoving down his trousers, revealing a startling lack of pants and a faint-dead-away gorgeous prick the likes of which even Scotty’s never been able to figment up. “Oh, my.”  
  
  
Hikaru glances down at himself and shrugs, tugging off his shirt and flinging it into the shadows of Scotty’s bedroom. “I’m gonna take that as a compliment.”  
  
  
“That’s, em, how it was meant.” Scotty’s eyes widen as Hikaru kneels between his spread legs—and when did  _that_  happen—and pushes them even wider. “Hey, now—“  
  
  
“Please,” Hikaru says, and looks like he might say more before he clearly thinks twice about it. Then he smiles again. That smile does things to Scotty's insides. Rearranges them, till his heart has taken up lodgings in his throat and his stomach is filled with butterflies.  
  
  
“Yes.” And before  _Scotty_  can think better of it, he says it again: “Ye—“  
  
  
Even as the second  _es_  leaves his mouth, Scotty’s flat on his back, his legs being pushed back and up until it feels like he’s being folded in half by Hikaru’s weight and will, then painhotshiverywrongburningtoobig as he’s broken open, invaded, taken over. His eyes clench shut, along with every muscle in his body, but for his mouth, which is open in a silent scream. At least until Hikaru takes that, too.  
  
  
“God, that’s it, baby. Just like that, just relax. Let me in,” he carries on in a litany that sounds out between sloppy kisses and slowsharpstopdon’tstop thrusts. “Let me make this good for you, please, just let me. . . .”  
  
  
Certain he’s being riven in two, Scotty’s about to reply with something as sharp as the gut-deep pain flaring inside him, when Hikaru’s cock, going deeper than it had previously jams against a spot inside him that changes the game completely. Scotty groans, arching up against Hikaru, all thoughts driven out of his head, but for MORE, written in flashing rainbow lights.  
  
  
“Do i’ again, do i’ again, do i’ again, oh, for the love of Heaven,” he pleads, near tears, in pain and ecstasy in equal measure. Each demand is swallowed by Hikaru’s mouth on his own, their tongues tangling on words that don’t really matter any way, because Hikaru  _does_  do i’ again, and again, and  _again_ , till the pain is just one note in a song of almost pure pleasure.  
  
  
“Don’t hide from me,” Hikaru pants, driving into Scotty harder for a few moments, as if trying to reach the core of him . . . then he slows, laying his head on Scotty’s for a moment. “Please let me in. I need you to let me in. . . .”  
  
  
“That’s,  _ow_ , a train that’s already sailed!”  
  
  
“That’s not what I mean, Scotty.  _Let me in_.”  
  
  
Scotty opens eyes he hadn’t been aware of closing, and sees worlds in Hikaru’s eyes. Whole galaxies flashing by, weighted with memories and experiences. He knows and understands everything that makes Hikaru Sulu  _Hikaru Sulu_ , and knows that the reverse is true: that Hikaru sees all that he is, knows it as intimately, if not better, than Scotty does, or Snoony ever did—  
  
  
A light smack to the face snaps Scotty back to the present and he glares at Hikaru, who glares right back and resumes the relentless pace of minutes ago. Scotty can feel his release winding near the base of his spine and pooling in his stomach.  
  
  
“No strolls down memory lane. I need you to be in the moment. That’s the only way this is gonna work. I need—“  
  
  
“Oh, save it for the afterglow,” Scotty says, bearing down as hard as he can. Then closes his eyes and comes before Hikaru can get the last word in. Not that that cross-eyed look of pleasure suddenly stamped on Hikaru’s serious face was indicative of any forthcoming witty retorts.  
  
  
For a long time—at least it feels that way, like an eternity or three—Scotty’s floating in a haze that’s like every good feeling he’s ever had, rolled into one. It’s being held by his mother, or making his father laugh himself red in the face. It’s his first kiss all over again, Snoony’s ice cream-cold tongue hesitant and slippery in his mouth. It’s the first time he repaired a transport’s engine, at the tender age of fifteen. It’s the rush of pride he got every time one of his Academy professors praised him. It’s playing chess with Dani, and pub-crawling with Jem and Lulu. It’s Charlie teaching how to make the famous Scott omelet. It’s his first real examination of Enterprises engine room.  
  
  
It’s Hikaru Sulu inside him in every conceivable way, filling him up so that loneliness seems like an old nightmare that he’d only ever heard about in passing.  
  
  
But the feeling, like all good feelings, comes to an end, and finds Scotty sprawled in a sticky wet-spot with Hikaru curled up on his chest, speaking so softly, Scotty can’t make out what he’s saying. Except that it might be  _I love you_.  
  
  
"No, ye don’t. This? You wanting me, and us being together thus  _is_  a dream.” Though it certainly doesn’t feel like it, for the way his arse is starting to really  _smart_ , and the damp spatters drying on his stomach. “Nane of it is real.”  
  
  
“You’re wrong,” Hikaru’s murmuring near Scotty’s left nipple, and a painful, almost agonizing bolt of lust sweeps through him. He moans as his prick takes that as a challenge to try and stand at attention again. “You’re wrong. This is the  _only_  thing that’s real, anymore.”  
  
  
“I’ll show y' real.” Where he finds the strength, Scotty doesn’t know, but he shoves Hikaru down to the bed and laboriously straddles him, pinning his wrists. Not hard, but hard enough to make his point. Though why he's making his point to some dream-made simulacrum. . . .  
  
  
“In waking life, ye'd have rearranged my every atom for takin' such liberties,” Scotty whispers, suddenly unhappy for a thousand reasons that he chooses not to look at closely. “Ye’re smart, funny, capable, and gorgeous, and . . . you’d never look twice at me.”  
  
  
“If that's what you believe, you aren't nearly as smart as you think you are.” Sulu snorts, and easily, gently frees his wrists from a speechless Scotty's hands and reverses their positions. He looks and sounds angry and bitter. “You’re an idiot and a coward, not that I’m any better. Plus I’ve got the worst sense of timing imaginable, considering the—”  
  
  
Scotty lays there, partly listening to Hikaru rant, but mostly staring up into the light-panel, listening to the chorus of twinges his body has become.  
  
  
“—don't think I ever realized how much I wanted you until—I mean, I'm not used to excess emotions. I don't . . . let myself feel things deeply. Or didn't. But now, feelings are all I have. Love, hate, happiness, rage, despair. Regret—holy  _shit_  the fucking  _regret_.”  
  
  
In a certain frame of mind, Scotty might find this inner monologue, this fantasy!Hikaru’s griping fascinating. It’s nothing that’s ever happened in any of Scotty’s other Hikaru-related dreams or fantasies. But for now, he can’t seem to find a comfortable, non-wet spot to shift into, or a way to lay in it that isn’t utterly torturous with Hikaru’s weight on his thighs. “For a dream, ye talk a lot. And y’ really pack a punch; my arse  _hurts_.”  
  
  
Dark eyes meet his and Scotty doesn't know how to read what he sees there, or respond to it. So he just says what’s on his mind. “Seriously. My arse is killin’ me.”  
  
  
Hikaru rolls his eyes, looking strangely relieved. “Dick.”  
  
  
“The very culprit,” Scotty agrees, unprepared for Hikaru’s deep  _heh-heh-heh_  of a laugh. Equally, he is unprepared when Hikaru kisses him again, quick and hard.   
  
  
"I can get you out of that place, now that you're a little stronger, but you have to trust me. Do you trust me, Montgomery?"  
  
  
"Aye, of course."  _Even though I have nae idea what ye’re on about, and even though ye’re just a figment._  "Yes, I trust you."  
  
  
Because, dream or not, he does. Implicitly.  
  
  
And the only word Scotty can think of to describe the smile Hikaru gives him is . . .  _grim_.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Scotty doesn't recall falling asleep, but figures he must have.  
  
  
In any event, the last thing he expects is to wake up with a drying wet-spot on the front of his trousers and a familiar post-coital tingle in his limbs and groin.  
  
  
“Inappropriate to the very last,” he murmurs to himself, torn between exasperation and mortification. He can only hope he hadn’t called out Sulu’s name  _too_  loud, not that Sulu could mistake the tenor of Scotty’s dream, even if he had no idea he was its focus.  
  
  
Which would be why Scotty's waking up on the floor, instead of leaning on Sulu's shoulder.  
  
  
"Clearly I'm on the mend," Scotty says, trying to make a joke of his wet-dream. From his limply prone position he struggles to his knees, despite the gentle revolution of the room, then somehow makes it to his feet. His legs feel steady enough, and he shuffles about slowly, waiting for the spinning to stop and for Sulu to say something. He casts around for a tell-tale swatch of gold and black.  
  
  
The cell is empty but for himself.  
  
  
“Bastards,” he mutters, sending a prayer to the saints of his childhood for Sulu’s safe return.  
  
  
Warmth steals into his stiff limbs slowly. With effort, he’s able to stretch the kinks out of his body; his mind, for all that the room’s spinning, is as clear as it’s ever been, and he knows one thing, and one thing only:  
  
  
This alien cavern will be their tomb unless they can escape.  
  
  
He slowly stotters around the area of the room, counting his steps aloud and thinking. He's got nothing better to do till the bastards bring Sulu back— _if_  they bring Sulu back—and he means to be something approaching nimble when they do.  
  
  
Whether or not help is on the way, they have to get out of here. They have to figure out a way, if not through main force, then through guile, though how they could possibly guile their way out of this fix when there’s not a common language or facial expression between them and the Ennorgn is beyond even Scotty’s brain.  
  
  
But in the end, all that matters is getting to the surface, where the Ennorgn are afraid to go. Not that Scotty’s harboring any illusions about his own escape, but Sulu . . . he’s still strong, still able. If Scotty can buy him time, be a distraction for long enough to Sulu to slip their captors. . . .  
  
  
Suddenly there’s a grinding noise, like a giant gear is being turned.  
  
  
Shaking, Scotty hobbles to the wall next to the door and puts his back to it. If there’s a way out of here, a way of getting help, it means going through whatever’s about to walk through the door. There may never be a better time for it, quite literally. Scotty’s not getting any stronger, and it’s likely the Ennorgn aren’t going to easy on Sulu, as it is.  
  
  
It’s probable, Scotty knows, that he’ll die or be gravely injured in this foolhardy attempt, but there’s a wee chance, very wee, of some sort of success if he can just give Sulu enough time to find his way up to the surface—never mind Sulu doesn't know where they are in relation to any exit.  
  
  
The grinding-clank of the lock stops.  
  
  
Scotty’s not remotely ready for anything, and he knows that if the Ennorgn are bringing Sulu back worse for wear, that’ll lessen the likelihood of this non-plan actually working. If Sulu is injured, then they’ll make for it together, or not at all. He has no intentions of leaving Sulu . . . Hikaru to the Ennorgn’s tender mercies.  
  
  
 _That’s a nice sentiment, but sentiment never saved anyone’s ass,_  Scotty thinks to himself wryly, and damned if that voice doesn’t sound like Sulu’s: deep, steady, and self-assured.  
  
  
The door swings ponderously open, and one of the Ennorgn—tall, covered in white fur, with yellowing tusks jutting from a cruel, blunt-toothed mouth—stumps in, snorting and gabbling something in a squeaking, high-pitched bleat. It’s empty-handed and sans prisoner, and oh . . . _what've they done with Sulu?_  
  
  
At that moment, the world explodes in bright-white light.


	5. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See chapter one for summary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not me, sir.

And just like that, the light winks out, leaving in its absence the dim mirkness in the cell, and shadowy, half-hidden knowledge in Scotty's brain.  
  
  
They’re in the first level of an underground complex that extends downward for dozens of levels. It’s at least the size of ten major Terran cities. The warthog-things—the Ennorgn—guarding them aren't many, but then, they weren't meant to be. At least not this close to the surface. The ones that came upon the six aliens wandering around the uppermost caves think them demon invaders from Hell Above, bringing with them eternal death.  
  
  
“Well, they weren’t totally wrong,” Sulu notes wryly from behind the Ennorgn guard, and Scotty’s arm rises seemingly of its own accord. His hand strikes out, fluidly and snake-quick, just in time to catch the guard in the midst of turning toward him.  
  
  
One sharp, accurate strike drives its piggish nose up into its brain.  
  
  
The guard gurgles wetly, and topples backward out the door, sliding down the wall outside the cell, its tiny eyes gone wide with surprise. Then it’s dead, and of no further concern. Sulu steps right over it to enter their cell and look around like he’s never seen it before.  
  
  
 _I canna believe I did that,_  Scotty thinks with more wonderment than horror, looking at his hand. It seems as if the hand should be throbbing and aching, but it doesn’t. In fact, Scotty doesn’t feel much of anything at the moment, like he’s a passenger in his own body, along for the ride.  
  
  
“You aren’t totally wrong,” Sulu tells him in a slightly grimmer tone. “Listen, I need you to not freak out about this. Not until you’re safe. You can’t fight yourself and them at the same time, so do yourself a favor and stay calm no matter what, okay?”  
  
  
“I—“ Scotty starts to stammer, but Sulu cuts him off with a glance.  
  
  
“Are we on the same page, soldier?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. He again steps over the dead Ennorgn’s body and out of their cell. After a moment of hesitation, Scotty does the same.  
  
  
Without, is a smallish antechamber that’s thankfully empty. The chamber, like their cell, is also dimly lit, and by no obvious light source. In one corner there’s an exit, and in the opposite, several low stone risers that seem to extend naturally from the rocky floor. The largest riser is surrounded by three smaller ones, and on it lay several phasers and comm-badges, scraps of torn, bloody clothing, and two damaged tricorders.  
  
  
Scotty feels a keen surge of grief that damn near sucks the energy out of him. He suddenly wants, very badly, to sit down and weep at the unfairness of it all.  
  
  
“Mourning is a luxury you can’t afford, right now,” Sulu says with almost chilly detachment. He’s staring at the torn bits of clothing, shredded black, red, blue, and gold, with empty, distant eyes. “Mourn for them now, and you might as well mourn for yourself, because you’ll die in here, too.”  
  
  
“But—“  
  
  
“They’re beyond helping, now, but you’re not, Scotty. Like I said, you can’t fight them and fight yourself at the same time. You’ve already burned up too much of your energy talking. We need to  _act_.”  
  
  
“Pardon me, but I’m nae robot! I need a wee moment to adjust!” Scotty wipes his eyes, but not with the hand that’d killed the guard.  
  
  
“I’m sorry, but there’s no time for that, either.” Sulu finally looks at him, and smiles a little, as grim as his voice. "Just trust me, and it'll be alright. I promise."  
  
  
"Not for the others, it willnae . . . Lord above, we've got to find their poor bodies, an'—"  
  
  
"'And,' what?" Sulu laughs ruefully. "Carry them out? Well, that shouldn't be too hard, since there's nothing left but ashes at the bottom of cesspit." Scotty's mouth drops open in horror, and Sulu immediately looks contrite. "Sorry, I'm . . . look, they think we're  _demons_. They burned the bodies to keep demonic spirits from infecting them with evil. The only reason you haven’t been taken deeper into their city is that they’re waiting for orders from their High Marshal. If they contaminated their city with a live demon, it’d be their heads. Literally. So, luck is on our side; let’s not waste it.”  
  
  
Sighing, Scotty nods his agreement, pushing thoughts of his comrades out of his mind. It's not easy, and he can feel guilt waiting patiently for him, should he make it out of this awful place alive. Can feel its teeth and hooks digging deep and settling in for the long haul.  
  
  
The badges are the first things he retrieves, and they go in his pocket, along with the third phaser and tricorders. The other two phasers, set to  **KILL** , he holds in each hand like an old-fashioned gunslinger.  
  
  
“Yippee-ki-yay, motherfuckers,” Sulu mutters, rolling his eyes, and Scotty rolls his own.  
  
  
“I suppose. But phasers in the close confines of the caves seems a mad idea, doesnae?”  
  
  
“Now you’re thinkin’, and you’re absolutely right.” Sulu walks back to the cell and the dead guard on noiseless feet. He hunkers down without stepping into the growing pool of blood spreading from around the guard’s head. He motions Scotty closer.  
  
  
Another brief hesitation and Scotty does, also kneeling over the rank, inert body. But for a belt and some sort of shoulder protectors, the guard is naked; though thankfully his blood-speckled fur seems to provide more than adequate coverage.  
  
  
“Get his belt, then roll him over,” Sulu orders, his hands twitching as if he’d rather be doing it himself, but Scotty’s already unbuckled the belt, and with a grunt and a heave he shifts the heavy body onto its side. The pool of blood underneath it starts to spread faster.  
  
  
“Mary an’ Joseph,” Scotty moans unhappily, but Sulu’s fierce eyes steady him once more. “What now?”  
  
  
But that’s already become apparent, as the “belt” turns out to be a scabbard, and in it is a scimitar.  
  
  
“Phasers for show, swords for a pro, buddy. Strap on.” Sulu murmurs, and Scotty tugs the other end of the belt free of the body. This time, there’s no hesitation as he buckles the thing on like he’s done it a thousand times before. He draws the huge, sharp scimitar with a feeling of fierce anticipation. Sulu grins crookedly. “Much better: a big, fuck-off shiny knife that could skin a crocodile. Or a warthog.”  
  
  
“I dinna know what’s more disturbing: this place or you.” One showy, swash-buckle of a flourish and Scotty reluctantly scabbards the thing. Then he’s leading the way back to the risers on feet as quiet as Sulu’s. He takes the scraps of clothing and shoves them into already bulging pockets, as well. He may not be able to bring their bodies home, but this'll have to do.  
  
  
“What’re they likely to do to us if they catch us?” he whispers, creeping to the entryway and peering around the edge: nothing but murky light, still shadows, and a short hallway that curves sharply to the left.  
  
  
“They won’t.”  
  
  
Scotty turns to Sulu with his best  _level with me_  face on. “But what if they  _do_?”  
  
  
When Sulu finally says something, it’s nothing like an answer to the question Scotty posed, and his face is closed off. “There’re eleven guards left between here and the exit, and it’s gonna get bloody. But it’ll be their blood, not yours, I prom—”  
  
  
There’s a surprised  _oink!_  and the pounding of feet from the hall behind him, and Scotty’s body turns immediately, ducking as it does—drawing the scimitar as it does. It flashes upward and there’s a spray of red.  
  
  
That strange, fierce joy rips through Scotty again like an orgasm, and Sulu just stands there, staring down at the dead, headless Ennorgn.  
  
  
“Ten, now.” he steps over this body, too, and out the antechamber.  
  
  
Scotty kneels to wipe the scimitar clean on the Ennorn’s snowy fur then scabbards it once more. He takes one glance back at the open cell then he hurries after Sulu.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
_Ten, like Eleven, dies gurgling on his own blood, having come round that sharp left turn squeaking and oinking after his comrades.  
  
  
Nine is in a small side-chamber with several stone risers that serve as beds. His weapons are on the floor within easy reach, but his snores are loud.  
  
  
Scotty creeps past the room quietly, and Nine lives to snore another day.  
  
  
Eight and Seven come close to death and walk obliviously past it, as Scotty crouches in a deep recess, his eyes meeting Sulu’s.  
  
  
“They’re the ones that got me,” Sulu says when the guards are well past. He looks more miserable than anyone Scotty’s ever seen, save his father after his mother died. “They got the jump on us, and before I could stop them, Pete was dead. Then I—“  
  
  
A loud bellow rises from the cell and antechamber. Eight and Seven have discovered their mates, and soon, they’ll come a-pounding back down the corridor, ready for war.  
  
  
“Follow me. Quickly!” Sulu’s up and running before the bellow dies down, and Scotty’s on his heels, hoping that the man at least has some idea where they’re going. He seems to take turns at random, but Scotty has the sense that they’re moving generally upward.  
  
  
Six and Five are waiting for them, thanks to Eight and Seven’s yelling. They charge past Sulu, heading straight for Scotty, who takes a few loping strides toward them, them drops to his knees at the last second, slashing upward with the scimitar, disemboweling Six, but barely scratching Five, who dodges to the side.  
  
  
Scotty’s on his feet and out of the way just in time. Six takes the killing blow that’d been meant for him, and while Five is trying to free his scimitar from Six’s torso, Scotty runs him through with one quick jab to the stomach.  
  
  
_Bloody hell! _he thinks, then he’s on his feet and running again, leaving Five to holler out the last of his life.  
  
  
“Shoulda decapitated him. He can’t scream without vocal cords,” Sulu chides, keeping pace and not even remotely out of breath. Ahead is another sharp turn that slopes noticeably upward.  
  
  
“Well, since you’re so bloody clever, why don’t you grab a sword and help ou—“  
  
  
“Duck!”  
  
  
Scotty does, and just misses being decapitated, himself, as he rounds the turn. When Four’s sword rebounds back after hitting the rocky wall, Scotty chops his arm off, and before the guard can do more than _squeeee _, Scotty’s pushed him over and driven the tip of the scimitar through his throat.  
  
  
“Happy, now?” he pants, as the Ennorgn dies, blood foaming and frothing past tusks and teeth. Sulu grins rather ghoulishly.  
  
  
“Ecstatic. Let’s go.”  
  
  
Three sees them before they see him—simply  _sees_  them, and goes  _wee-wee-weeee_  down a side shaft, all clatter and commotion. It's almost funny, until Scotty remembers that the creechy, fremmit bastard had a hand in the deaths of his comrades.  
  
  
A few more twists and turns reveal light, watery and dim, but natural. That animal stink has even begun to thin out, in favor of dust and grass.  
  
  
“Not far, now,” Sulu says needlessly, pulling ahead of Scotty. He disappears around a right turn, but only for a moment. He immediately comes running back, his eyes wide. “Okay: two left, and they’re ready for you. They’re bigger, and better trained than those assholes back there. They’re the Outer Guard, and it’s their job to keep the demons out.”  
  
  
“You mean _us _,” Scotty whispers, and Sulu nods.  
  
  
“They already failed once. They don’t mean to do it twice. They—“  
  
  
There’s a bellow behind them, not more than four or five turns back.  
  
  
“Phasers!”  
  
  
“Are ye _mad _?” Scotty demands, but he’s already scabbarded the scimitar and drawn two of the phasers. “We’ll bring this entire place down around our ears!”  
  
  
“Only if you miss,” Sulu says, shrugging jerkily. “It’s a risk you have to take. You’re dead anyway if they catch you.”  
  
  
Another bellow, this one much closer. “You make a good point.”  
  
  
“Ah, fuck it, just go in fast and low,” Sulu advises quietly. “Make for the exit, and don’t stop to see if they’ve been hit—the falling rocks oughta keep them busy. Just keep firing and running.”  
  
  
"Actually, I've got a better idea." Scotty stalks forward till he reaches the turn, pauses, then readjusts the phasers’ settings. Then he strolls slowly around the corner, grinning.  
  
  
“—fuck’re you _doing _?!” Sulu’s voice hisses from right behind him. But Scotty just keeps strolling.  
  
  
“_You _trust_ me _, now,” Scotty hisses back between clenched teeth.  
  
  
The man was right when he said these final guards would be bigger. They’ve got at least a head on the others, and there’s an air about them of coiled readiness. Their tusks look sharper, and their scimitars are far more elaborate.  
  
  
Behind them is a wide entrance, and beyond . . . cloudy moonlight winking off of white gravel.  
  
  
The guards start forward and Scotty holds up a phaser. Points it not at them, but at the wall to their right and fires.  
  
  
Rock heats up red before splintering, and sending molten shards flying. The Outer Guards block their faces reflexively, and in that moment Scotty could kill them easily, but instead he points the phasers, both of them, at the ceiling of the cave.  
  
  
He’s no xeno-anthropologist, but even he can see the penny behind their tiny eyes drop.  
  
  
“That’s right, lads, I’ll bring this whole place down on our heads if ye dinna stand aside and let us demons be on our way.” Keeping his phasers pointed at the ceiling the whole time, he walks calmly onward, sweat running down his face and neck, every nerve in his body screaming at him to run, run,  _run_. But he knows once he does, once he shows fear, they'll be on him like a pack of wild boars.  
  
  
When he draws abreast of One and Two, they part like the Red Sea, keeping well away from him, clearly afraid of coming in contact with him. He keeps going slowly, but evenly toward the entrance, keeping his phasers pointed up as he passes the Outer Guards. A few steps beyond them is the rocky upslope leading to the outside, and a steepish hill that's easily the most beautiful sight Scotty's ever seen.  
  
  
“I canna believe we made it,” he murmurs, still grinning, still strolling. "After you, Hikaru."  
  
  
“_After me _? You ass—_ run _!” Sulu commands, darting past Scotty, who follows quickly just as there's a clatter of colliding bodies right behind him.  
  
  
 _That would be Seven, Eight, and Nine colliding with One and Two. Saints preserve,_  he thinks as they race out into the night, into bright moons-light. They run down the hill that leads to the cave, and up another low crest. They run till Scotty, at least, is out of breath and holding the stitch in his side.  
  
  
With three hills between them and the entrance of the cave, Scotty collapses, and for awhile, he knows nothing but peaceful darkness._  
  
  


*

  
  
  
"Rise and shine, Sleepy Joe."  
  
  
And Scotty does so, bolting upright, heart racing, pulse pounding, head spinning. At first he thinks he's had the worst dream in the history of mankind, till he gets a good look at Sulu’s bruised face, and their rocky, dusty surroundings.  
  
  
He groans. "Wasnae a dream, then."  
  
  
"Nope." Sulu laughs mirthlessly. "I wish it was, but it's not."  
  
  
Scotty shakes his head, but that does nothing to help the spinning. "How long was I out for?"  
  
  
Sulu shrugs. "Dunno. The moons are lower in the sky than they were. They're almost setting, now." He waves a hand at the night sky. The clouds have cleared off just enough to make out the planet's two greyish moons, one looming larger than the other, and washing out the stars with it's dingy light.   
  
  
Sulu's watching him expectantly, all dark-eyed intensity. There's a smudge of dirt on his chin, and before he's thought about it, Scotty reaching out to wipe it off. Sulu turns his face away, and Scotty sighs.  _Some things ne'er change._  "So, what next?"  
  
  
Without looking at him, Sulu responds by pointing at a distant, rocky hill. "If you wait up there, you should be high enough they'll be able to home in on your frequency and come get you."  
  
  
Ignoring the bolt of hurt Sulu’s avoidance caused, Scotty gets laboriously to his feet. Sulu does likewise, only he manages to make it look like it's the easiest thing in the world. "What d'ye mean _you_? It's  _us_  they're comin’ for," Scotty says, the world spinning way more than it ought. His skull feels as if it's about to crack open and his body is one mass of aches and pains. But he's alive. _They're_  alive, and that's all that matters.  
  
  
Sulu shakes his head once. "I'm sorry, Scotty."  
  
  
"What? Sorry? There's naught to be sorry for, man, we're home-free!" Previous hurt, and even his own exhaustion is forgotten as he realizes  _they’re going to be okay. It’s over._  He reaches out to clap Sulu's shoulder and gets evaded again. But even that doesn't phase him. “Like you said, we’re gonna be a'right.”  
  
  
Sulu shakes his head again, still not looking at Scotty. "I can hear the call, but it's so faint . . . if I don't go soon, I'll lose my way. Keep fading and fading till I’m nothing."  
  
  
"What’re ye talkin’—lose your way to  _where_?" Scotty demands, suddenly desperate for no reason he can pinpoint. And when Sulu finally looks at him—reluctantly, it seems—he's no longer bruised or bloodied; like magic, he’s healed and smiling, his dark eyes squinting and bemused, as if he can barely see. "Saints preserve me—how—?"  
  
  
"I just wanted to make sure you got away okay . . . that you were safe. And I did. And you are."  
  
  
" _We_  are," Scotty amends, ignoring the tickle in the back of his brain, the chill that goes racing up his spine and down again. "Please, just . . . come with me and I promise, it'll be a'right."  
  
  
Sulu sighs wistfully. "I can't. I really wish I could. It's not every day the Chief Engineer offers to take me somewhere."  
  
  
"Damn right isnae. So stop talkin’ nonsense." Scotty means to tug Sulu with him to the hill, or at least just  _toward_  him, and it's as if his hands slip  _right through_  Sulu's, and he over-balances. But he catches himself, and gapes at Sulu. The tickle can't be ignored any longer; the numbers are adding up to something that Scotty thinks he recognizes, as much as he'd rather not. "What—what  _are_  ye?"  
  
  
Sulu's eyes tick to the sky behind Scotty's left shoulder, and his smile turns bitter.  
  
  
"You should go," he says softly, and before Scotty can say aught else, Sulu's stepped close again, close enough to kiss, only where their lips should meet, there's only intense, localized coldness. Shocked, Scotty inhales and gets the barest, ghostly taste of salt, mist, and maybe blood.  
  
  
Sulu makes a strange, yearning sound low in his throat and where there'd been only coldness, the slightest trace of warmth grows. It almost feels like an actual kiss, but . . . it's more of an inhalation. Scotty feels as if the very breath is being stolen from his lungs, only he's still breathing just fine. But his head is buzzing, and his limbs are trembling like they did when he first woke up in Sulu's arms, pain locked tight around his head like a vice.  
  
  
Alarmed, he clutches at Sulu's arms to keep from collapsing even as he tries to summon the willpower and strength to pull away. But there's nothing to be clutched at and Scotty overbalances again, unable to catch himself this time as he falls through the coldness that is the shade of his friend. The fall jars his entire exhausted being and he moans, rolling onto his back, gasping and coughing. It feels like an age that he lay there, staring up at the clouded sky and trying to catch his breath.  
  
  
Then Sulu leans over him, watching him intently with dark, dark eyes, like the gulf between galaxies.  
  
  
“You taste like life," he whispers, some strange emotion crossing his face. It's gone in an instant, and he's leaning down for another almost-kiss. This time, Scotty knows, there'll be no falling, no breaking away, no stopping. Just an icy embrace, as the lips pressing his own grow warmer and realer. . . .  
  
  
"Sulu—Hikaru, don’t," he chokes out, wracking like a sick old man, all a-tremble as that terrible coldness seems to envelop him once more.  
  
  
Hikaru moves nearer, his eyes wide open and  _hungry_ , like those of a starving man.  
  
  
With Herculean effort born of sheer desperation, Scotty scrambles backwards before Sulu's lips can meet his own, struggles to his feet, and goes staggering in the direction of the hill. At first he could swear he feels Hikaru right on his heels, feels that chill breath on the back of his neck, but that only spurs him on and away from the arms that’re waiting for him.  
  
  
Halfway up the steep hill, Scotty stumbles and falls to the ground, his head spinning wildly. Then a sudden, cool breeze sweeps across him and he's up and running again. For his life. The next time he falls, he crawls the rest of the way up the hill, and doesn’t look back till he reaches the top. When he does, he sees Hikaru standing exactly where he’d been left, watching him silently. He looks small and sad . . . and so very alone.  
  
  
Scotty wants nothing more, for a moment anyway, than to go back. To offer what little comfort and absolution he can. But he knows in his heart that there’s no comfort or absolution for the dead. There’s only whatever waits for them in the hereafter, and living are left to mourn for those who’ve moved on, and for themselves,  
  
  
Mourn Scotty will. When the heartbreak that’s waiting for him on the other side of this finally catches up to him, he will mourn greatly for the friendship they’d had, and what they could’ve had, if only in Scotty’s silly dreams.  
  
  
For now, he simply raises a hand—the Killing Hand, as he’ll come to think of it ever after—and waves in acknowledgement and thanks.  
  
  
And farewell.  
  
  
After several long minutes, Hikaru raises a hand as well and mouths something Scotty can’t make out. Then a sudden flash of light illuminates the entire area, instantaneously so bright, it whites out the world.  
  
  
When dimness settles once more, Hikaru’s gone, like mist dispersed by a sudden shaft of sunlight and Scotty’s head is spinning worse than ever.  
  
  
Nevertheless, he sits there watchfully, unwilling to take his tired eyes off the last place he saw Hikaru, till the comm-badges in his pockets go haywire and the distant whine of an approaching shuttle shakes him from his vigil.


End file.
